


FUBAR (Fucked Until Beyond All Recognition)

by goingbadly



Series: Outtakes and Deleted Scenes: Separation [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Asphyxiation, Domination, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Partner sharing, Submission, Threesome - M/M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:17:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two sets of eyes bore into him; fascinated by the sliver of chest he’s revealing as his shirt falls open. One set dark, featureless, devouring: the other pale, hot, like the burnished barrel of a Winchester Shotgun. Sebastian feels like a butterfly with his wings pinned, his skin stiff and hypersensitive.<br/><i>It’s like being flayed. </i></p><p> </p><p>Absolutely shameless, unbeta'd, PWP.<br/>Jim and Sherlock take Sebastian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FUBAR (Fucked Until Beyond All Recognition)

“ _There_ you are, Sebastian. Get on your knees, would you?”

Jim turns from the center of the living room to Sebastian. He’s got a faint, appraising grin glued to his face, and his eyes are cold and insincere. Sebastian freezes in the doorway, gun case in one hand, door keys in the other. He opens his mouth. When nothing seems to want to come out he’s forced to shut it again, feeling off balance and foolish. What’s waiting in the living room isn’t exactly _horrifying,_ but… There are some things Seb just doesn’t have a prepared answer for and Sherlock Holmes setting down a drink on the end table in Conduit Street is one of them.

“Boss, what…”

“Proving a point, dearest.” Jim snaps his fingers impatiently to remind Seb of his order, frowning.

_I meant get on your knees **now** , Sebastian. _

Seb, very slowly and carefully – so as not to spook anyone – sets his rifle down on the floor and sinks to his knees beside it.The soft carpet of their living room leaves his movements silent, making Seb’s soft exhale the only audible sound in the room. Sherlock and Jim might as well be statues, for all they appear to move or breathe. Jim is standing beside his favorite chair – the squishy purple one, with the dent from Sebastian’s head in the arm. His hand, resting on the deep violet upholstery, almost brushes against Sherlock’s curls. The detective is leaning back in the chair, ankle crossed comfortably on his knee. Sherlock’s smile is a fun-house mirror of Jim’s; calculating and sharply interested.

“It hardly proves anything,” Sherlock drawls, when Sebastian leans back on his heels. Sebastian balls his hands into fists on his thighs, controlling the urge to demand explanations. Sherlock’s fingers are steepled under his chin and his eyes are intent on Sebastian; pale and gleaming, like the edges of scalpel blades.

“ _That_ doesn’t. Sebastian, strip.”

Jim’s voice has gone brusque and clinical. Sherlock leans forward, pads of his fingers pressing against each other – as if Seb is a squirming thing under his microscope lens. Sebastian’s breath wallows in his throat and he has to swallow – hard – to allow oxygen to pass to his brain.

“Boss…” he protests, licking his lips.

“Sebastian, the next time you speak, I expect it to be _yes sir, no sir, god daddy fuck me harder,_ or I’ll mail your tongue to someone who can get better use out of it. Chef, maybe.”

Sebastian’s mouth slams shut. Jim smiles. “Good boy.” He gestures Sebastian onwards; Seb drops his head, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. His mind is racing. Not that Seb’s ever had much luck figuring Jim out, but he can’t stop _trying._

_What the hell is Sherlock doing here?_

The black buttons on Sebastian’s shirt seem to be the exact same shade of the fabric, and he’d swear they’d gotten smaller since he did them up this morning. He fumbles at them, feeling the concentrated weight of two stares on his fingers. The hair on the back of his neck raises, and he shifts – unable to get comfortable, even on the plush carpet. The room is curiously still, silent. Sebastian thinks uncomfortably of tigers stalking their prey; of the breathless moment before a kill.

He makes the mistake of glancing up.

Two sets of eyes bore into him; fascinated by the sliver of chest he’s revealing as his shirt falls open. One set dark, featureless, devouring: the other pale, hot, like the burnished barrel of a Winchester Shotgun. Sebastian feels like a butterfly with his wings pinned, his skin stiff and hypersensitive.

_It’s like being flayed._

The shirt unbuttoned, Sebastian shrugs it to the floor. “Good,” Jim purrs, “The rest of it, now.”

Sherlock’s lips have just parted, his eyes blazing curiosity. Sebastian licks his lips again – _when the fuck did my mouth get so dry? –_ and glances between the two men above him. Jim raises his eyebrows, inviting comment. Sebastian doesn’t think he’s joking about the tongue thing.

_Probably feed it to me afterwards._

Sebastian swallows, hard. He tugs his belt off rather than just open – playing for time – and unzips his trousers. He has to wiggle to get them over his hips while still kneeling; god knows if he’s allowed to stand up, now. He tosses his pants off to the side, following them with his socks as an afterthought. The air of the room is cool on Sebastian’s skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise, like hackles. Sebastian takes a minute to go through the breathing exercises they taught him in the army, calming his racing heart as he kneels nearly naked before two geniuses.

_On display._

Seb glances up in time to catch Jim twisting his neck sinuously in the way he has before a murder, lizard-like and threatening. Sherlock’s eyes follow the motion, forgetting about Sebastian for a moment to share an inscrutable look with Jim. Seb’s cock twitches between his legs without asking his head for permission, a hot flow of blood starting to pool in his gut. _God._ People fantasize about things like this, don’t they?

“I still think he’d resist,” Sherlock hums. His eyes switch back to Sebastian, his full lips curving in a thoughtful frown – like Sebastian is a particularly difficult math problem.

Jim shakes his head, smiling a shark’s smile. “Oh, Sherlock. Didn’t you bother to _housebreak_ yours? Sebby will do anything I tell him to do. Isn’t that right, Tiger?”

“Service with a smile,” Seb replies – but cautiously. He’s feeling the air between them for danger, now, the spots in Jim’s conversation that might cut him later.

Sherlock gestures irritably. “His loyalty to _you_ isn’t in question.”

“Try it for yourself, then,” Jim says. Still smiling lightly to himself, in on a joke that Sebastian can’t see. Seb narrows his eyes at Jim, searching for the _point_ of this.

_Besides being ungodly hot._

_What –_

“Sebastian.” Sherlock’s voice thrums and rolls like odaiko drums. Sebastian’s attention snaps instantly back to him. Sherlock’s lips curl up; he’s wearing one of Jim’s smiles, the _You-Will-Enjoy-Worshiping-Me_ smile, the smile that promises later Sebastian’s orgasm will leave him unable to stand. “Take off your pants.”

Now _that_ order, Sebastian is theoretically allowed to disobey.

Sebastian justifies stripping the rest of the way by telling himself that technically, _technically_ , it was Jim who told him to strip first. He knows he’s not fooling anyone; fuck, if there’s two people Sebastian is _never_ going to fool, it’s Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty.

His pants get added to the pile between him and the rifle case, and Sebastian sits back – calloused heels to the bare skin of his ass. Sherlock hums, approving. The sound thrills down Sebastian’s stomach to his cock, hot and pressing. He can feel himself get harder, his chest start to rise and fall as his breath gets laboured. Control becomes an issue.

_God knows, getting aroused by Sherlock might be the wrong fucking answer –_

Jim might be waiting for that, might be hungry for an excuse to beat Sebastian bloody. Fucked if Seb knows, fucked if Sherlock being here doesn’t make him nervous as hell. Jim twitches his fingers above Sherlock’s head, inching towards a fist. His eyebrows arch. Fear catches in Sebastian’s throat, at odds with the prickly sensitivity of his skin, and that’s it. He’s lost. He’s fighting to stop involuntary responses; the blow of his pupils, the flush of his skin. The drop of pre-cum forming at the tip of his cock.

“Boring,” Sherlock huffs loudly, “Exposure is such an _ordinary_ fetish… with your _lifestyle_ I was expecting something a bit more – “

“Sherlock,” Jim interrupts. Much quieter. Slow, so Jim can feel out the roundness of Sherlock’s name in his mouth. The muscles in Sebastian’s thighs twitch in helpless response. “Give Sebby some credit. He’s not just responding to us _watching._ ”

Sherlock stands, at that; too curious to stay where he is. Sebastian’s nerves vibrate, tingling just on the edge of an adrenaline rush as Sherlock stalks over to him. He grabs Sebastian’s chin between two cold fingers and forces it up, scanning Sebastian’s face.

_“…Oh.”_

“Like that, do you?” Jim’s gloating. Sebastian tries to pull his head away from Sherlock, and he can’t. Sherlock’s grip tightens, until it feels like the bones of Seb’s jaw will creak and snap under his fingers.

_What the fuck is going on, Boss, what the **hell** – _

“ _Interesting,”_ Sherlock breathes, “Do you mind if I – “

“Be my guest.” Jim’s inspecting his fingernails again. Still holding Sebastian’s jaw in one hand, Sherlock reaches for his trouser zipper. Sebastian’s heart pounds its way up his sternum, past his throat into his temples. His head fills loud and tight with the rush of blood, making him light-headed and dizzy. It feels like facing Taliban, like hunting tigers. He snaps his gaze past Sherlock’s hip but Jim is out of sight, blocked by the curve of Sherlock’s arm, holding him steady –

Sebastian lifts his ass off his heels, intending to flee, and Jim clicks his tongue.

Just once.

Knowing the threat and promise in that neat, sharp sound, Sebastian sinks back. _Not going to get a look at Jim, then._ No way to tell if he’ll skin Sebastian for _wanting_ this.

Sebastian looks up; Sherlock meets his eyes with a perfectly arched brow. That pale, intense stare pierces through Sebastian, nailing him to the floor. Sebastian’s fingers grip hard against the goose-bumped skin of his thigh. His mouth is thick with saliva, heavy on his tongue. Sherlock’s got his trousers unzipped, shoved down just enough to free his cock. He’s not hard, yet; his cock hangs pale and flaccid between his legs, but when he gets a grip on Sebastian’s hair and drags him forward, there’s very little doubt what Sherlock _wants._

One hand on Sebastian’s hair, then. The other around the base of his cock. Sherlock’s getting hard, fast, and the smell of him fills Sebastian’s nostrils; for a moment, the room is a dizzy whirl of sensation. The smell of salt, and sweat; the prickle of his skin in the cold air; the low, dangerous slide of Jim’s laughter.

_Oh, fuck._

Sebastian’s lips open on a moan and the head of Sherlock’s cock runs over his bottom lip.

Sebastian opens wider.

Sherlock pushes between his lips and Sebastian feels him harden as he thrusts his way callously forward. The skin of his cock grows tight and rigid on Seb’s tongue, through his mouth, ramming against the back of his throat. Sebastian chokes. Only Sherlock’s hand in his hair holds him upright, twisting, transfixed. Saliva pools on Seb’s lips, and the slide of Sherlock’s cock over them makes sloppy, wet sounds; startlingly loud in the quiet. The smell of salt and spit and pre-cum mixes on the air, leaving Sebastian breathless. Sherlock groans, his fist in Sebastian’s hair tight and unforgiving. He slams his hips forward – two, _three_ –deep and brutal, until Sebastian half thinks Sherlock will tear his throat open and leave him bleeding.

Sebastian’s thighs tingle with the rush of blood in his veins. His stomach clenches, hot and aching. He reaches up, grabbing at Sherlock’s trousers. His fists twist in the fabric, desperate, although Sebastian is unsure if he means to pull for more or push for reprieve. Sherlock’s callous fuck down Sebastian’s throat shouldn’t be hot, and god, it’s _not_ , it’s _not_ turning him on, and Jim will _kill_ him for daring to please another man –

Sebastian’s moan vibrates around the hilt of Sherlock’s cock, his nose slammed painfully against Sherlock’s stomach. Jim laughs again, brighter, delighted. Like that’s a cue, Sherlock hauls Sebastian off; holding him up by the hair, a thin strand of saliva connecting the tip of his cock to Sebastian’s bottom lip. Sebastian stares up at him, dazed. Sherlock’s cock, hard and still slick with Sebastian’s spit, leaves a wet smear on the detective’s dark button-down. He’s much bigger than Jim, and Seb’s throat is raw what feels like all the way down to his lungs. He rasps out a sound – it could be a cough, god knows what it sounds like, helpless and begging and lewd.

“He hasn’t let go of your trousers,” Jim comments, detached.

“Mmm,”

Sherlock lets go of his hair and Sebastian slumps bonelessly back to a kneeling position. He takes several deep breaths; no longer fighting for calm. _Calm_ is out of the question. Seb’ll settle for not leaking out of his own ears.

Sherlock turns back to Jim, tucking himself away in his trousers. His erection still presses at them, tenting the fabric. Jim smiles, broad and self-satisfied. “Not _bad,_ is he, Sherly? Can yours do better?”

“We’re not here to talk about John,” Sherlock frowns. Jim huffs a melodramatic sigh, and pushes himself off the chair. He sways across the carpet to stand over Sebastian. In his dark, fitted Westwood suit, Seb can tell he’s just as aroused as Sherlock; but infinitely more dangerous.

Jim is, after all, _creative._

Sebastian shudders when Jim trails two fingers over his lips, then pops them back into his own mouth. Jim sucks the pre-cum and saliva clean with a practiced flick of his tongue that drives Sebastian absolutely _mental._ Pale fingers disappear between Jim’s lips as he swallows them down, drag out, then a pink flick of tongue chases around them – Sebastian chokes back an invitation for Jim to use that tongue more productively. It’s not worth his life.

Still. Jim fellating his own fingers should be posted on all the highways to hell. Underneath a neon sign, labelled, _“Sinning.”_ He’s the best advertisement the devil ever had.

Sebastian shifts on his knees and Jim’s black eyes flick down to him. He’s got hunger on his face, and more deadly still, he looks _curious._ At his side, Sherlock is panting like he’s just finished a marathon, hair gloriously out of place.

“Well, okay,” Jim smiles, mock-kind. Mock- _normal._ Sebastian’s stomach lurches. Jim’s at his most creatively nasty tonight, and god help him, Sebastian is aching hard. “D’you see my point now, Sherly? Wouldn’t want you to miss it. Maybe we should do some practicals?”

“That might not be… amiss.” Sherlock is staring down at Sebastian, fixated. His eyes flick back and forth over Sebastian’s flushed skin. Sebastian loses more blood from his brain to his cock. But it’s the sudden, icy press of Jim’s fingers into the bone over his eye socket that makes Seb cry out, swaying on his knees between them. He’d missed Jim’s movement entirely, looking at Sherlock, and now… Now those cruel, clever fingers are a breath away from his eye, or his temple, the fingernails a hair from digging in.

_After all Sherlock just fucked my throat and if nothing else Jim is possessive –_

_Jim would skin me for **touching** anyone else –_

“Fear,” Jim sings, “Is such a _beautiful_ look on you.”

Sebastian manages a sound in response – not sure _what_ sound, but _a_ sound.

Jim straightens and adds, to Sherlock, “Take him upstairs.”

+

They don’t tie Seb down. Nothing so conventional. Jim grabs a fistful of Sebastian’s hair and hisses, “If you can’t obey us, Tiger, I’ll replace all the bones in your arm with pipe cleaners,” and it’s the insane sort of threat Jim would probably follow through with just to see if he _could._

Besides, Sebastian doesn’t need to be tied down. Not tonight.

They get in the door of Jim’s massive gilt and white bedroom and he’s pushed face-first down onto the bed. A hand shoves his head roughly down into the pillows, and Sebastian takes the hint and stays there. His ass hangs half off the bed, air cool on his over-heated skin. His cock rubs against the smooth silk of Jim’s bedspread but he knows better to fuck himself forward onto it; Jim discouraged that, a long time ago, with a branding iron and a stern reprimand –

_You’ll come when I want you to, Tiger, and not a second before._

Cold fingers trail over the curve of his spine, down to his ass. Sebastian has no idea who they belong to. He takes a sharp breath, awareness narrowing to the sparks of pleasure as they press against his perineum; then slide back upwards, teasing at his entrance.

_If it were Jim he’d shove them in dry, make me scream for the hell of it –_

But there’s no guessing. Jim is just as likely to lube Seb up and take him apart.

“Look at him, debating,” Jim says, cool and clinical, behind Sebastian. “If it were my fingers, _not_ pressing back would be insulting. I do think it’s a bit _funny_ when he ruts himself all over me. But if it’s _you,_ Sherlock, he can’t be _too_ enthusiastic. I might get mad. Oh, _ordinary_ people…”

A finger slides in and unhesitating, presses forward for Seb’s prostate. Sparks explode behind Sebastian’s eyes and he moans, rocking back towards the pressure.

“Which is it, then?” Sherlock’s voice, from three inches to the right of where Jim last spoke; sounding just as clinical. Detached. Jesus, it could be either one of them shoving a second finger into Seb – stroking over his prostate, setting his skin on fire and his legs trembling. He can’t _think._ “Come on, Moran. Which of us is fucking you?”

Seb twists to look and a rough hand in his hair stuffs his face back into the pillows. There’s a dizzying sensation as the soft fabric cuts out his air. Sebastian’s head swims between asphyxiation and the unrelenting slide of pressure over his prostate. He feels obscenely full, and at the same time, empty and craving; two fingers is not _nearly_ enough, not when he knows how hard Jim can fuck him. The loss of oxygen sets his skin tingling, hyper-sensitive, amplifying his desperate desire until Sebastian feels like he’s on fire.

He can’t help himself; he grinds forward against the sheets, gasping with the pressure and pull.

_Wrong move._

“Naughty, naughty…” The fingers breaching Seb still and withdraw, and at the same time the pressure on the back of his head releases. Seb turns his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut, and gasps a few breaths to steady himself.

He should know better than to think Jim or Sherlock will give him any respite.

Sherlock grips Sebastian’s shoulder and flips him firmly onto his back. That would be the time to struggle, only Jim is at his other shoulder; a light press of fingers, just to remind him, _stay down._ Then Jim holds up a short black vibrator with a flared base, and wiggles it teasingly in front of Sebastian’s nose.

“You didn’t _guess,_ ” he sighs, “You’re such a disappointment to me, Tiger, I don’t know how I manage.” He twists and, slides down the bed between Sebastian’s legs. Seb’s cock twitches at the sight of Jim, still fully dressed, settling between his thighs. Shifting, mercurial, Jim is grinning as he runs the vibrator up to press against Sebastian’s entrance. “Now you’re going to have to wear _this_ instead of getting fucked by _anyone._ Terribly sad…”

Sebastian growls, opening his mouth to protest.

Jim takes the opportunity to shove the vibrator in to the hilt and turn it on, all in one smooth motion.

Seb arcs off the bed, his complaint lost in babbling nonsense as the electric thrill of the vibrator rebounds off his prostate and through his cock, his stomach, down to his toes and out his skull. He writhes against Sherlock’s grip, panting, and it’s not until Jim turns the vibration down that he manages to moan instead of _screaming._

“Oops. Notch too high?” Jim giggles.

Sherlock runs a thumb over Sebastian’s lip. Without thinking, Sebastian opens his mouth. The digit slides inside, over his tongue, and Seb sucks at it desperately. His tongue flicks circles around the pad of Sherlock’s thumb, and he watches with satisfaction as the detective’s eyes go dark. _Oh, god, please – give me a chance to get you off –_ because it wouldn’t be the first time Jim decided to keep Seb from coming, and maybe if he does a good enough job of pleasing Sherlock…

Sherlock pulls his hand back with a growl, as if reading Sebastian’s mind. He folds off the bed and turns to Jim; they’re both dressed, still, in flawless suits over the writhing mess of Sebastian on the bed. Sebastian twists to watch them; finding a position where the rub of the vibrator is merely maddening instead of intolerable, where the steady stream of precum running down his cock seeps harmlessly into the bed rather than covering his stomach.

Sherlock’s fingers curl around the nape of Jim’s neck and he pulls Jim forward, holding him into a kiss that looks more like hatred than affection. Jim clutches at Sherlock’s skull, beneath his velvety curls, scratching at the bone. Sherlock folds him slowly backwards; bending him over with the pressure of the kiss, until Jim is drawn out in an arc and Sherlock has to wrap an arm around the small of his back to keep him from falling. Sebastian makes a noise in the back of his throat, animal instincts warring in his gut – wanting to protect Jim, wanting to see Sherlock rip Jim’s clothes off and take him like an animal in heat –

But for all that Sherlock bends Jim, Jim cannot break. It’s Sherlock’s shirt and jacket that hit the floor first, followed by his trousers. Followed by his _knees._ Jim grins at Sebastian, both hands still wrapped in the detective’s curls, holding his head pressed against the crotch of Jim’s Westwood suit. Seb can see the glare Sherlock shoots upwards; and the work of his mouth against the fabric of Jim’s trousers.

“ _Ooh_ ,” Jim groans, “Tiger, the look on your _face…_ ” His hips jerk forward, grinding against Sherlock’s open mouth, fingers white with the force of holding Sherlock still. Sebastian shifts on the bed, about to stand, and the vibrator moves inside him; brushing over his prostate, banishing his thoughts into fire-work sparks. Dimly, as if through murky glass, he sees Jim let Sherlock go. “Too bad _that’s_ not my point tonight.”

Jim’s voice is gauzy, lost behind the roar of blood in Seb’s ears. Sebastian’s hips rock and the vibrator settles inside him again, another press on his prostate, leaving him gasping and twitching. He grabs at the sheets, chest heaving.

“ _Fuck –_ “ Sebastian _knows_ he has something in mind to follow the curse, but unfortunately for him, that’s when Sherlock grabs the vibrator and gives it a twisting thrust deeper into Seb. Whatever words had been on his mind fracture, and the next thrust breaks them entirely; Seb clutches the sheets over his head, squeezes his eyes shut and arcs his back, rocking into each merciless sensation as Sherlock uses the vibrator to fuck him open and sloppy.

_Damn pretending I don’t want him – damn Jim – Oh, god, that’s good –_

Even Jim’s cold finger, pressed to the base of Seb’s cock, can’t bring him crashing back to earth. Jim’s gotten naked – when the _fuck_ did that happen? – and he’s smiling, wide and hungry.

“ _Beg,_ ” he says, one word, single syllable, and if you told Sebastian five years ago he’d be begging for cock he would have slit your throat just for the suggestion,

“Oh, fuck, Boss – goddammit, c’mon – “Another wicked twist of the vibrator, making Sebastian press up into Jim’s cool touch, panting. He’s not quite begging, and they both know it. “Fuck – _Sherlock –_ make me come, fuck, come _on_ – “

Jim’s eyes go narrow. He wraps his hand around Sebastian’s cock at the very base, tight enough to be painful. Sebastian cries out. “I didn’t say beg _Sherlock,_ ” Jim chides, just this side of really angry. Sebastian moans, biting his lip.

_Fucked up. Jim might not let me come at all now. Not unless –_

“ _Please.”_

“Sorry? Didn’t catch that.”

“Fuck, Boss, _please,_ let me come, fuck me, _dammit – “_

Jim giggles. His fingers relax, stroke slow and loose on Seb in contrast to the brutal thrusts of the vibrator in Sherlock’s grip. Sebastian keens, shuddering beneath the two of them.

“Well, maybe. Repeat after me, Tiger.” There’s a swell of horror in Sebastian’s throat. He couldn’t remember his gran’s name at this point, let alone whatever Jim wants him to repeat – they’d done this before and it was fucking _quadratic equations,_ Seb had been so hard he’d wanted to cry –

Jim does a pretty good mocking impression of Sebastian. “I want you to fuck my throat, _Boss_ , and I want _Sherlock_ to fuck my _ass_.” Sherlock punctuates Jim’s words with another press and twist of the vibrator, and Sebastian feels like he’s being rent entirely in two. He can’t seem to get enough air; the world is dark and tense and centered around the heat building in his stomach. “Go on, then, Sebby. I’ll skin you for fucking someone else. Show me how much that thought turns you on.”

_Jim with a knife at my throat, grinning his death’s-head grin, completely insane and panting to take me apart – with a gun, no safety, fucking me and pulling the trigger –_

“I – I want you to fuck my throat – _Boss_ – “Sebastian pauses to fight back an orgasm that threatens to overwhelm him, whimpering. Jim grabs a handful of hair and yanks Sebastian’s head back. The pain helps. Sebastian’s eyes snap open, meeting Jim’s, and he manages the rest of it all in one go – “And I want Sherlock to fuck my _ass._ ”

Silence. Dead silence, except for Sebastian’s helpless panting and the buzz of the vibrator. Jim’s face is closed off. He takes a hissing breath, and nods to Sherlock. The vibrator cuts out. Sebastian’s stomach goes hollow; Jim is surveying him, with his lips pressed into diagonal slash. He could be thinking anything. Sebastian could be dead, now, and just not know it yet.

Then, slowly, Jim nods. His face breaks into a sunny smile.

“Why didn’t you _say_ so?” he chirps, and with the hand in Sebastian’s hair, drags him from the bed onto the floor. Sebastian dimly feels the vibrator slip out of him as Jim hauls him bonelessly forwards. The fibers of the carpet dig hard into his knees. He’s aware of Jim, arranging him on the ground, and little else. Sebastian’s body is weak and unresponsive, as if all of his tendons have been cut at once; as if all of the tension in him has drained into his painful, desperate cock. He pitches forward into Jim’s lap as soon as the hand in his hair loosens, face pressed to the sweaty, salty skin of Jim’s thigh. It leaves his ass in the air, _open_ , obscenely spread.

_And I just begged to be fucked, oh, Christ –_

“Am I a stunt-cock, then?” Sherlock drawls. “ _Dull._ ”

“Oh, no.” Jim pats Sebastian’s hair. Sebastian breathes hard through his nose, trying to stay in one piece; but he can feel Sherlock’s hands on his hips, positioning him. He’s never felt so _empty._ God, he _needs_. “It’s _you._ It had to be _you.”_ Jim nudges Sebastian’s chin up, so Seb has to meet his eyes.

Sherlock’s cock presses against Seb’s entrance – Seb feels his lids start to squeeze shut and forces himself to keep them open. It makes tears gather on his lashes, and Jim brushes them away with something not very much like tenderness. “He likes being scared. Don’t you, Seb?”

Sebastian can’t growl protest or moan agreement. The first inch of Sherlock’s cock, sinking into him, severs his ability to do anything but hold his breath and let the burning stretch overwhelm him.

“He can’t decide if he’s more afraid that we’ll dissect him, or that afterwards I’ll remember he’s not allowed to _fuck_ other people…”

Sherlock rocks into Sebastian, inch by inch, and if Seb was open and sloppy from the vibrator it is _nothing_ to how he is now. He loses sight, loses time, loses everything except the steady pressure of Sherlock’s cock raking over his prostate and the thin thread of Jim’s voice tying him to reality.

“…And he’ll always remember, he begged my greatest enemy to fuck him.” Sebastian feels Jim curl over him, the hot rush of Jim’s breath on his ear. Quieter, for Sebastian’s ears alone, Jim adds, “You don’t have a boundary I can’t cross, Tiger.”

Pleased. Possessive.

Sherlock rams himself forward with a grunt. Seb jerks in Jim’s lap, crying out, and Jim laughs. He cards his fingers back in Seb’s hair and rearranges the two of them on the floor with a series of gentle tugs. Sherlock’s next thrust, forcing the air from Sebastian’s lungs, makes his mouth fly open. Jim jams his cock in, past Seb’s wet lips, chasing Sebastian’s inhale. Seb can taste the salt of Jim’s cock on the back of his throat, the weight pressing his tongue down and making his jaw ache. Behind him, Sherlock is breathing hard, growling on each exhale. His hips slam Sebastian forward, impaling him onto Jim’s cock; deeper, deeper. Sebastian is split in half by the two of them. _Fucked_ in two.

He can’t breathe. His face pressed against the skin of Jim’s stomach, Sebastian writhes. At least half of it is instinctive, his body screaming for air. The slap of Sherlock’s hips into Sebastian fills the room, nearly drowning out Jim’s soft gasps as he shoves himself down Sebastian’s throat.

Choking. Dying.

Sherlock hits his prostate, hard. _Fuck!_

When Sherlock withdraws there’s just enough space to get breath, until Jim’s hips roll forward and Seb is drowning again. Drowning in the two of them, in the heat in his stomach, the screaming in his veins.

_God, I’m going to – so close, fuck, just –_

Sebastian scrambles to get a hand under himself. Jim laughs breathlessly. “Sebby, _no,_ ” he gasps. Sebastian’s whine vibrates his throat around Jim’s cock. It makes Jim moan, low and rumbling.

Sebastian stops trying to stroke himself.

When the manic pressure of Sherlock’s thrusts gives way to a rigid tension, Sebastian wants to cry. He feels the pulse of blood through Sherlock’s cock as Sherlock comes with dead panic, writhing as much as he can with his head held into Jim’s lap. _No – fuck, so close –_

Sherlock collapses forward onto Sebastian’s back, their skin sticking together with sweat and come. Sebastian bucks, trying to get him off, but it’s bad timing; Jim’s fingers tighten in his hair. There’s a low, snakelike hiss from Jim, and then he’s coming, and Sebastian is choking on it; his throat, his mouth, his tongue, covered in the thick bitter flavour of Jim’s release.

_Surely **now,** boss, please **–**_

But Jim falls back on the floor. It’s Sherlock he gestures to, grinning, triumphant. “Go on, Sherly,” Jim pants, “Show Sebastian how much we _appreciate_ him.”

Sherlock’s fingers wrap around Sebastian’s cock. Jim holds his gaze; transfixing Sebastian, as sure as if he’d bound Seb until movement was impossible. Seb feels Sherlock’s come, hot and slick and obscene, running down his thigh. He can taste Jim’s on his lips. Fucked open, _used_ , his mind frayed down to a useless stub.

Sherlock’s hand fists a tight ring around Seb’s cock and strokes, base to tip. Jim’s head lowers, in the slightest sketch of a nod.

Seb can almost hear his voice.

**_Now_ ** _, Tiger._

Sebastian’s orgasm is like hitting the ground from ten thousand feet; like his insides are made of C4; like he’s stepped on a landmine in his brain. He goes white. He goes skinless.

Sebastian hits unconsciousness at a hundred miles an hour, crying out Jim’s name.


End file.
